


The Hairstylist

by Reality 3_0 (reality_2_0)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-29
Updated: 2009-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reality_2_0/pseuds/Reality%203_0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all about the hairdo. PWP (so not much there to sum up)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hairstylist

“Whoever did that should be arrested and not allowed to do his job ever again!“

His loud cursing peaked her interest. So she put the postcard she was using as a bookmark between the pages of the script she was reading and went to investigate what had caused this outburst.

When she entered the room, she found him in front of the laptop, some picture opened. When she stepped closer, she recognised herself on a promo shot of “The Closer”.

“Hadn’t you only wanted to check your emails?”

“Yeah, but after someone asked about your guest appearance earlier, I had to have a look.”

“I see. So who should be arrested?” Curiosity and amusement clearly tinged her voice.

“The hairstylist who committed this crime.” He nodded at the screen.

She couldn’t help but giggle. “You don’t like it?” she cooed into his ear once she had caught herself again.

“Not at all,” he growled while reaching over his shoulder to caress the object in question.

“Why not? I’m not all that fond of the style either, but it’s not that bad, is it?”

“It is.” He spoke with a determination that left no room for discussion or any doubt of his strong dislike for that look on her. Letting go of her, he pushed the chair back and got up to face her.

“And what, if I may ask, should it look like?” Her tone teasing, she arched an eyebrow.

“How about I show you?” His usually deep timbre seemed to be even lower.

The mental image of him in the outfit of a cliché gay hairdresser had her in stitches once more. It was too hilarious. There was no doubt he could pull off quite a few roles, but a gay hairdresser? No way in hell.

Patiently, he waited for her to calm down, knowing very well that there was no stopping her once she got like this. On its own volition, a grin spread across his lips upon the sight of her. She was cute. Granted, she was always cute, but especially so when she was bubbling over with laughter. God, he loved her, and was long beyond the stage of denial.

Running a hand through her hair as she had a habit of doing, she took a deep breath, obviously trying to regain her composure. “I think I’m okay now,” she stated, still a bit breathless.

“So…?”

“So show me.” She wanted to sit down on the chair he had just vacated, but he shook his head.

“Not the right place.” Her hand in his hand, he dragged her to the full-length mirror in the corridor of the hotel room, where he then positioned her in front of himself, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders.

With her eyes, she searched his in the reflection. “Won’t you get a brush or something?”

“Don’t need any. These,” he lifted his hands, “will do perfectly.”

“Magic hands, mister?”

“Definitely.” The husky tone sent a shiver over her body, one of anticipation, of pleasure. It was an unmistakeable hint as to what he planned to do now, a warning which should cause an alarm or two to go off in her mind to remind her that leaving, resisting would be the suitable cause of action before they were guilty of betrayal – again. Again being the operative word in this case, the key to her relishing it instead of eschewing it, of putting as much distance between them as possible within the blink of an eye, of glaring at him and berating him for even thinking this. The opposite was the case, she leaned back, pressed her body closer against his to feel him, to enjoy the power he had over her, her body. They had done this – or a different version of this – together more times than either of them dared count. Once more didn’t matter. So there would be an again and again and again until they were either tired of each other – the most unlikely case – or had learned how to resist each other – another unlikely case, albeit more likely than the first one – or made up their minds as to what they wanted and what they could have – probably not going to happen anytime soon. In result, they were doomed – and gloried in every second of it.

His hands glided down her sides, playfully counting her ribs as they went, to her hips, along her waistband to meet at the fastener of her jeans. Making short work of it, he pushed the denim down until gravity took over. As much as he liked to see her ass and amazing legs in those jeans that appeared to be painted on her skin, they had proven to be an obstacle more than once in a heated moment.

Her panties followed a moment later, and after an encouraging nudge from his leg, she obediently stepped out of both, kicking the items to the side. Meanwhile, he opened her buttons, the lowest first, then following the trail upward. Once the last button – the one over her bosom – was undone, his hands slipped under the material to part it to give him a good view on her front, now only concealed by a burgundy lace bra.

Whereas he was absorbing the sight of her in the mirror, she studied his face, his features, his reaction. The desire she felt against her backside was plainly visible in his eyes. The intensity of the hunger took her breath away. This look was part of what made it so impossible to resist him, them. Under his eyes, she felt as desirable as people said she was. Despite knowing she could still turn heads and not dressing conservatively, she often forgot what it was like to be the object of one man’s desire. His appreciative, hungry stare, his growls of want served as a pleasant reminder of her sensuality. It’s been a while since a man had so openly desired her, let her see his desire for her, let her feel it. It was such a heady feeling, one she rejoiced in, couldn’t get enough of. He was her dealer, was her drug like she was his – they probably weren’t good for each other, but they made each other feel good. It doomed them both.  
He reached for her hands, entwined their fingers. Squeezing them for a moment, he guided them to rest on the wall on each side of the mirror so her posture was a bend one. He then swept her hair to one side and started to nibble at her shoulder, moving upward along her neck until he reached her earlobe.

“Watch closely,” he husked while pushing her breasts out of the cups, moulding them into his palms, teasing the already stiff nipples. Her joyful hum turned into a sound of displeasure, though, when he abandoned one to run his hands through her hair, tousling her locks as he pulled her head back which she had let fall forward to watch the play of his fingers.

“Watch yourself. See for yourself why nothing can compare to this look on you,” he almost ordered. “I want you to see the transformation from the beautiful woman with heedfully styled hair to the vamp with unruly locks I know you are.” He grinned. “It’s my favourite look on you. And I have seen quite a few over the years.” He tweaked her nipple between his fingers. “I like when it looks like I just ran my hands through it in passion when I didn’t pay attention to what it would look like, only to what it felt like, to what you felt like. Your body against mine. Us moving together until we’re spent but satisfied. I love when your hair looks like that. When it reminds me of how it got this particular style while everybody else would just think you ran your hand through it one time too often.” All the while, he ruffled her hair, caressed her scalp. She moaned under his ministrations, moaned at the images his words provoked, the memories they brought up, the sensations accompanying those. As she pressed her ass closer against his groin, he let out a sound that was a mixture of amusement and passion. “I see you know what I mean, but just to make sure we’re on the same page, let me refresh your memory.”

The hand that had fondled her breasts, slid lower, gently danced over her stomach, stopped on its way down to circle her navel before moving on to the juncture of her legs. He cupped her sex, pushing a finger between her labia. Her body shivered in response as a wave of pleasure rolled over her upon his first touch. This man had a talent for turning her on with his voice and words alone, to excite to a point near release without even touching her. The one time a friendly call had turned into a heated exchange of fantasies and wishes never was far from her mind whenever she heard his voice, never failed to arouse her. The wetness his fingers encountered was proof of that.

“Yes, you definitely know what I’m talking about.” He smiled against her neck.

Before she had the chance to come up with a witty retort, he slipped a finger into her wetness, and when she opened her mouth, only a moan escaped her. She damned him for knowing her so well, for playing her so well. She damned herself for being unable to offer any resistance, she let him play with her, enjoyed it even. And how could she not? Despite his cockiness, his overpowering masculinity and impossibility which had their moments, he ignited her passion like nobody else. Or maybe it was because of those that he had this effect on her, that she could lose herself in the sensations he created within her, between them, lose herself in him. Which isn’t to say he got away with all the teasing and displays of superior strength; she always paid him back at a later time either by playing a trick on him or using his oh so strong maleness against him. Yes, she loved having her wicked way with him. Who wouldn’t love to have a man like him at her mercy? Wouldn’t love to be the ruler over his pleasure? She loved to make him beg as much as he loved to hear her whimper and scream to finally grant her the damn release he’d denied her. It was a game between them, one they both enjoyed, the current situation just another example.

Teasingly, he grazed her clitoris with only the barest of touches while dipping his finger into her again and again and telling her in this husky voice of his with the special tone that was reserved for moments like this just how good she felt to him. She loved and cursed this particular tone for it always reminded her of being fucked by him, and the bastard knew it, knew that she only needed a word or two spoken in this tone and her knees would turn into jelly while she became wet, wet for him. He was a master at pushing her buttons. But for a similar reason, she loved crossing her legs when sitting opposite him in public. At the moment, though, he was in charge. No question about that. She was putty in his hands as drove her nearer and nearer to the brink. Unable to keep her head up any longer, she let it sink forward, her hair tumbling over her shoulders, forming a curtain on each side of her head. He didn’t pull her head up again but used its new position to nose a few errant curls aside so he could suck her neck. Suckling, nibbling in sync with the rhythm of his finger thrusting into her, he also rubbed his groin against her buttocks, showing her just how much he was affected by what he, they did.

From one push to the next, he added a second finger to enter her, curling them slightly within her, caressing, stimulating her inner walls while applying more pressure to her clit with his thumb, making her tremble even more in lust. By now, her body was screaming for release. Although she often hated it, she was not above begging. Sublimity didn’t exist in this universe of two. No dignity, no respect was lost this way. They both had a love-hate relationship with begging. They hated to beg, but loved to make the other one do it, to drive them to the point where one would loose all shame in the flood of desperate need, didn’t care for anything but the blissfulness of release. The feeling to be able to bring a person so much pleasure, to control a person so much that she forgot everything, even herself, was a powerful one. One they didn’t begrudge each other. They took and gave in equal measure, always both getting enjoyment out of it.

When the plea on her lips had just been about to be voiced, he granted her what she craved most, rubbed her clitoris hard, thrust three fingers into her as far as possible. With a loud moan that with lots of imagination could have resembled his name, she flew over the edge, and for a while, he refused to let her down from the high, continuing to stimulate her senses with his voice, her breasts and pleasure point with his fingers. In the end, she did beg – for him to stop, to allow her drained body a break. She could feel his self-satisfied smirk against the skin of her shoulder, but didn’t care. After this demonstration, he had earned the right to be pleased with himself and to show it.

Pulling her upright flush against his body, he held her still slightly shaking form in his arms, one wrapped around her torso directly under her breasts, the other looped around her hips. The tone of his voice as well as his words had changed from seducing and provocative to soothing whispers of sweet nothings. Languidly, she turned her head, leaning against his shoulder, to the side to place soft, airy kisses on his jaw and cheek.

Shortly before he twisted his head, she felt him smile under her lips. His attempt to press his lips against hers in a loving kiss, however, failed. He only managed to hit the corner of her mouth.

Returning his focus to the image in the mirror, their image, he loosened his hold on her, obviously sure she wouldn’t topple over within the next few moments. Tenderly, his hands roamed over her body.

“Look at us,” he urged quietly. “Look at yourself. See the light flush? You always get it during sex, and I like putting it there. It suits you, and I plan to keep it there for a while longer now.”

A moan was all she managed in answer as she looked at their reflection, watched his darker hands dance over her fair skin, circle her taut nipples, draw a line from her bosom to her sex, dipping between her labia for a short moment. At this sight, her recently sated arousal inflamed a new. This man was good for her sex drive, too good at times. He spoilt her in this regard – something she cursed and loved him for. However, it wouldn’t do to reflect on this. It had taken her a while, but by now, she had learned to not question the joy he brought her, to simply relish it. Staying true to this resolution now, she gave herself over to his ministrations, surrendered to the sensations he evoked within her so easily. Her hands clinging to his thighs, his butt so she had something to hold on to, could indulge in squeezing his ass.

Wanton goddess of lust, he had once called her when she had awaited him recklessly unclothed in his hotel room on the desk standing directly opposite of the door, feet propped up on the armrests of the chair, legs therefore spread. And at the moment, she really felt like it as he worshipped her curves, husked descriptions, memories into her ear when his fingers passed a special spot – be it one where he had left a hickey once or where she had bruised during a more passionate encounter against one or the other surface, be it one he liked to kiss her, to rest his hands on. The list appeared endless. Not that she cared for each point, each mental image of passion, of longing he created only served to heighten her arousal.

Soon, she was moaning his name, demanding, asking, begging for release. With a gentle kiss to her shoulder, though, he denied her, wouldn’t be hastened, told her to be patient for right now she would serve him and his pleasure which was to watch her writhe under his hands, against him. How could she refuse such a wish, resist such a desire? Especially, when the suffering she had to endure was of the most exquisite kind. However, she couldn’t help her body’s reactions. Head pressed back against his shoulder, she arched her chest, her stomach, her hips – wherever his fingers happened to be at the moment – into his touch in an attempt to intensify the stimulation his digits provided.

A soft chuckle escaped him at her quiet “damn you” when he once again only skimmed her clitoris instead of treating her to the longed for climatic high. She was this close to release her hold on his trousers, his behind to take care of herself, but knew he would catch her by the wrist before she had a chance to accomplish this, knew he would make her wait for it even longer afterwards.

“Do you want to come?” He took her earlobe between his teeth and started to suckle it.

If she hadn’t wandered off into the land of incoherency where the lack of ability to form and voice sentences was civic duty as far as she had, she would have told him that this clearly had to be a rhetorical question. But as things were, she settled for a “frak you”.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Bastard!

After rubbing her nipples one more time, his hands headed downward; one to hold her against him by the hips, the other to stroke her clitoris in earnest – finally. She hummed in relief the moment it became clear the torture, albeit a sweet one, was over. It really didn’t take long for her to scream out in release once he applied more pressure to her pleasure point. His arm around her served as a barely-noticed reminder that she wasn’t floating, had indeed not changed her state of aggregation from solid to fluid even though this was how she felt. As a sentiment to the time he had kept her on the edge, the waves of pleasure were high and hit her forcefully.  
While she shivered as the release rolled over her again and again, he watched her, her heaving bosom, the flush that had once again take hold of her body, darkened even. This was one of his favourite states of her – (almost) naked, bonelessly satisfied thanks to him, in his arms. The downside of this was his own arousal becoming more painful with the minute. She always affected him, more so when they were alone, more so with each piece of clothing she wasn’t wearing. And right now she wasn’t covered by much.

During the time he took to drink in every detail of her, their appearance, she slowly caught her breath, her balance again, unnoticed by him who had gotten lost in thoughts, although they were thoughts about her. So the wriggling of her ass against his hard length came as a surprise and pulled him out of his musings instantly.

“Wanna do something about that?” Albeit breathless, her tone was teasing yet sultry, promising.  
“You bet.” He pushed his groin against her behind.

“Good.” Extricating herself from his embrace, she leaned forward, bracing herself against the wall again, presenting him with her ass invitingly.

Growling at the sight, the implications, the possibilities, he made short work of his pants, sent them down to his ankles, his briefs accompanying them. The loss of the pressure of the restraining clothes was only a mild relief if at all. The real relief, the one he craved, needed would only come one way.

“Do it,” she urged. “Take me.”

He groaned out in pure lust. Those words… their effect… He knew better than to ask if she was aware of what those words, that tone did to him. It would only be a rhetorical question anyway for, of course, she knew, knew all too well. If he hadn’t known that already, the smirk on her face would be a telltale sign.

Her eyes caught his in the reflection as she leaned farther forward, pushing her behind further up, further in his direction. A thrill running down her spine, she saw his eyes darken with untamed desire. This was going to be fast, going to be hard, going to be mind-blowing. She was going to love it.

A blink of an eye later, he grabbed her hips forcefully, heightening the intensity of her feelings of anticipation, of arousal and desire that should have been sated but obviously weren’t. It should scare her how much, how strongly this man could affect her, but that would be analysing what they were, what they had – which they had forbidden themselves because it would only amplify their (moral) problems.

Breathing hard and in short intervals, she waited for him to position himself, to take her, to possess her physically. Then suddenly, he was there, filling her wet channel, forcing the air out of her lungs with a loud cry which mingled with a hoarse, deep one in the seemingly hot air of the hotel room.

Her head rolled forward, locks falling along with it, as he started to thrust into her in a slow rhythm that belied the urgency of his carnal longing. But he always savoured it, her when he, they had the time to do so, when it was more than a short fuck between scenes. The times they didn’t have to watch the clock, could remove more than the necessary clothes, didn’t have to fear being caught in the act due to their vocal natures were rare. So he refused to waste even one of them with untimely haste no matter how much he simply wanted to pound into her as hard as possible. Granted, it always ended this way, but the build-up was to be a different matter because he never knew when he would get the next chance to worship, to enjoy her soft curves at a slow, memorising pace. And memorising he did. Every time anew, with his hands and eyes.

Right now, his digits trailed over her stomach upward to her dangling breasts, moulding them into his palms while he kept pushing into her as slowly as his body, his passion, his hunger for her, for the bliss of orgasm allowed him to. Her hums, her moans, the feeling of her body against him, around him urged him on, made it finally impossible for him to continue this way; he just had to speed up his pace. Faster and faster, his pumping became, like their respiration. With panted words and joyous sounds, they fuelled each other’s passion, pushed each other on.

“Touch yourself,” he gasped against her skin. His hands were busy toying with her breasts, a feeling he enjoyed and refused to give up. However, his climax was imminent, and he wanted her to fly with him.

Without question, she did as he had asked, sliding a hand down her stomach to where he glided in and out of her. The moment she started to rub her clitoris a surge of sensations run through her nerves. Moaning aloud, she threw her head back, her locks pattering down on his head.

Her contracting inner walls proved to be too much for his self-control. Biting down on her shoulder, he came hard, followed by her shortly after. Together, they rode out the overwhelming waves of blissful satisfaction.

Gently, he kissed the spot he had bitten in climatic passion, licked his way along her shoulder, nuzzled her hair as he straightened their postures.

“Now, this is what your hair should look like, don’t you agree?” His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her body tightly against his, he peered over her shoulder, drinking in the sight of her glowing, well-fucked appearance, hair in complete disarray. Still overcome by sensations he had evoked in her, she could only nod. When he phrased it like that, he definitely had a point or two.

The End.


End file.
